Moonspun Magic (34 page)

She cried out, beyond herself, again and again.

He hurt now, a lusting pain so great that he moaned softly to himself.

Then Rafael pulled her tightly against him, drawing on lost control, he knew. More kisses and murmurs, and Rafael saying to her something about wanting her so much, about his mouth on her. Then she was on her back on the bed, her legs parted, and Rafael was coming over her, covering her, his hand between them, finding her.

And she climaxed wildly, endlessly.

God, he couldn't bear it. He slid the panel closed, feeling the small wooden knob slip. His fingers were slippery with sweat. His forehead was beaded with sweat. His pants were distended with his need.

He fled down the dark, narrow passage, his breathing harsh in his own ears.

“Love,” Rafael said, “I can't wait.”

She drew him deeper, and it seemed in that moment that she would want him forever. She told him she loved him and his eyes gleamed at her words, and she watched the cords tighten in his strong throat, his eyes close, his back arch, and felt him filling her.

And she held him, holding him so closely that they were one, and he was now a part of her and she of him. She didn't want it to end, ever.

He was breathing hard, as if he'd been running. He was beyond words, beyond thought. He collapsed atop her, his head on the pillow beside hers. Never had he felt such profound joy.

 

The Ram read Johnny Tregonnet's letter once again, trying to make sense of the less-than-cogent recital of Rafael's approach to Johnny the previous night at the ball. Stupid sod, he thought, crumpling the single sheet of paper in rage. So Captain Carstairs wanted to join their little group, did he? Or he would destroy everything? That was his threat.

The Ram sat back in his comfortable leather chair and stared at the glowing embers in the fireplace. He was briefly tempted to let the captain loose on his threatened rampage. He would doubtless learn the identity of every member—if he hadn't already guessed who they were. Except one. No one, not a single member, knew the identity of the Ram. The men thought the black hoods were all a lark, a ploy
to pretend that they were anonymous so that their inhibitions were nearly nonexistent. But of course they all knew each other with or without the hoods. No, the black hoods were to protect his, the Ram's, identity.

This was the first occasion the hidden box for messages had ever been used. The Ram had on an afterthought sent his man to the box to check. And there was the letter. At least Johnny had sobered up enough to remember the existence of the box. Now, what was he to do?

He remembered the one terrible mistake. That damned viscount's daughter. It was more than a possibility that Captain Carstairs was here on behalf of the viscount, and if that were the case, there was no doubt that the captain was out to destroy him, regardless of the nonsense he'd told Johnny.

What to do? He rose from his chair, stretched his aching muscles, and poured himself a brandy.

He supposed there was only one thing to do. Not that he really wanted to; he'd never before considered himself that sort of man.

But there was the fact that Victoria would be dependent again, vulnerable, with no man to protect her. It was heady, that thought. He wanted her, had wanted her for so very long.

Still, he must move slowly, carefully. There must be no mistakes. He wouldn't take the risk of informing any of the members of his plans. One of the fools just might ruin everything.

No man ever became extremely wicked all at once.

—J
UVENAL

V
ictoria stood outside the stable door, listening to Flash recount to Jem, a stable lad of great credulity, one of his more outrageous adventures in London's Soho. He finished with, “So, you see, Jemmy boy, if a mort's attention flies away from you, if you ken what I mean, then whosh! And it's yours, every coin the cove's carrying. Nimble fingers and fast feet, that's what's needed, yes, sir. Did I tell you about the time I tried to lighten the captain's purse?”

“What is this?”

She turned and smiled, a dazzling smile that made him draw in his breath. “Rafael. I thought you'd gone to St. Austell. Well, as near as I can tell, Flash is telling Jem all about the marvels of picking pockets in Lunnon town, and how's it to be done, if you ken my meaning. His story of how he tried to relieve you of your sovereigns is next. I suppose I shouldn't be eavesdropping, but—”

He waved a negligent hand. “Actually, I just got back from St. Austell and—”

“I know, now you want us to prepare to leave for
Falmouth. After luncheon? I do look forward to seeing your ship and meeting your people.”

“Er, yes. Actually, what I was going to say,” he continued, his voice lowered, “is that every time I think of yesterday afternoon, I want you again. Every time, Victoria, very much.”

She turned red, murmured unintelligible words, and scuffed the toe of her riding boots in the dirt.

“You're enchanting, I've told you that many times. It isn't yet time for luncheon, and even though I haven't a kitchen floor like the one at Honeycutt Cottage, I do know of a very private glade, the ground covered with moss and soft grass, the area hemmed in with huge maple trees.”

Her heart began to pound. She licked her lower lip unconsciously, and he grew instantly hard. He wanted to grab her, tear her clothes off, and be damned. Instead, he held himself in iron control.

He wanted to kiss her here, now. They were not in clear view, but on the eastern side of the stable, no one in sight. “Victoria, come here.”

She came to him willingly, her expression one of anticipation. She slid her arms around his waist and stood on her tiptoes. His hands went from her arms around her back, bringing her even closer. Slowly he lowered his head and kissed her. Fiercely. Then he gentled, his tongue lightly stroking her bottom lip.

Victoria was stunned. She kissed him back, parting her lips, but still felt nothing. What had happened?

What was wrong?

“Rafael?”

He thrust his tongue into her mouth, probing, finding her tongue, and she drew back, her brow knitted as she stared in confusion up at him.

“I want you now, Victoria. Come along.”

“But this isn't right,” she said, looking up at him. “No.”

He grabbed her wrist suddenly, pulling her off balance, and she fell against him. She felt his hardness against her belly, through her clothes, and saw the gleam of purpose in his eyes.

 

“Damien. I would that you speak to your brother. Would you look at him and Victoria, just look. There, by the stable, nearly making love for all to see.”

He stopped dead in his tracks. “What are you talking about, Elaine?”

“I'm talking about Rafael and Victoria. I know they are married, but still, they shouldn't be so very loose, don't you agree?”

He stared at her, then quickly strode to the window. There was no sign of them.

“Damien? Whatever is the matter?”

“Nothing,” he said shortly. “Nothing at all. Your loose cousin and my brother have probably gone into the hayloft.”

 

Damien pulled her in his wake behind the stable, never loosening his grip on her wrist.

“Let me go, damn you. Now.”

“Victoria, love, come along. You know you want me—”

“I know, Damien, I know it's you.” She jerked free of him, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “You're despicable. Why, you've even taken his jacket and tied your neckcloth as he does. Did you sneak into our room?”

Damien tried to smile, but it was difficult. He'd failed. “How?” he asked, not moving, his body aching with need for her. “How did you know I wasn't Rafael?”

She looked at him squarely, and her voice was icy calm. “I felt nothing when you touched me. I felt nothing when you kissed me. Then I felt disgust
when your tongue touched my mouth. With Rafael, I feel everything that is wonderful. Go away. You're a pig, Damien.”

His look was ugly. “You're lying, Victoria. You wanted me. Oh, yes, I know you're wild with my twin, and you will be as wild with me.”

She slapped him, hard. His head flew to the side with the power of her blow. Neither of them moved. Damien lightly stroked his fingertips over his cheek. He said very softly, “You will pay for that.”

But Victoria paid no attention. She grabbed her riding skirts and ran full-tilt from the stable toward Drago Hall. Her breath was coming in short gasps. She was trembling. It had been Damien, Damien all along. He'd worn Rafael's clothes, he'd spoken of Honeycutt Cottage, the kitchen . . .

She stopped dead in her tracks, the edifice of Drago Hall looming over her. She closed her eyes, feeling such fear and humiliation that she couldn't think straight.

“Come with me.”

She blinked, and stared at Rafael, who was standing on the top stone step of the Hall.

“Rafael?” Her voice sounded tentative, uncertain, and he frowned fiercely down at her.

A black brow arched upward and his tone was snide. “Who did you think it was, Victoria? My twin, for example?”

“I couldn't be all that certain. You see—”

He slashed a hand through the air. “Enough. I said to come with me. Now.” And he turned on his heel and strode through the great front doors, not looking back.

Victoria stared after him; her back stiffened, anger filling her. What was wrong with him? She followed him, but saw that he was turning toward the small estate room. She ignored him, and picked up her
skirts again, dashed up the stairs, her destination the nursery and Damaris.

Rafael turned, once inside the estate room. “Now, Victoria, I believe you have quite a bit of explain—” His jaw dropped. She was nowhere to be seen. How dare she. He felt rage pour through him. But he controlled it at the sight of his twin, in his shirtsleeves now, walking across the entrance hall, his head lowered in profound thought.

“Damien.”

“Hello, twin. What are you doing in my estate room?”

He wanted to kill Damien, he wanted to strangle him with his bare hands. But he hadn't seen him and Victoria together, no, just Elaine had seen them, supposedly. He said mildly, “Just looking about. You're very neat, Damien.” He looked about at the tidy desktop, the rows of books on the shelves. “Where is your coat?”

“I was overly warm,” Damien said, shrugging. “I removed it and left it somewhere, I suppose.”

“And I was with your wife.”

“What is that supposed to mean, brother? More cryptic wit of yours?”

“She was upset that I was with my wife, making love to her in front of God and the stable lads, but you see, it wasn't me, it was you.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Damien said easily. He walked across the Aubusson carpet to the narrow sideboard and poured himself a brandy. “Would you care for some?”

“No, all I care for at this moment is an answer from you. Tell me, Damien.”

“Elaine is nearing her time. She also tends toward hysteria, just like her mother in that respect, and it's magnified when she is pregnant. I really haven't the
faintest idea what you're talking about. I shall speak to Elaine if you wish.”

“Yes,” Rafael said slowly, “yes, you do that. And I will speak to Victoria.”

Rafael walked slowly up the staircase, down the long eastern corridor to the Pewter Room. There was no one there save Molly, who was cleaning out the grate. This time her mobcap was neatly set atop her light brown braids. She smiled shyly at him.

He nodded to her and retreated. It was some time later that he entered the nursery. Damaris shrieked at the sight of him and dashed forward to clutch at his legs. Victoria remained seated on the floor, a row of dolls in front of her.

“Torie and I are playing dolls. Do you want to? I'll give you Queen Bess.”

That was obviously quite a concession. “No, not just now,” Rafael said, his eyes searching his wife's face. She looked very pale, frightened. He stiffened. She had no reason to be afraid of him, did she?

“Victoria, I have decided that we will travel to Falmouth on the morrow. Is that all right with you?”

She nodded, saying nothing. He saw her lift one of the dolls and hold it close to her chest.

His lips thinned. He hugged Damaris, set her away from him, and left the nursery, not looking back.

Victoria didn't move. She watched him, listened to his footsteps as they retreated down the long corridor. What would he have done if she'd been alone? What would he do when he learned the truth? She shivered. She disliked Damien profoundly, but she liked her cousin, at least most of the time she did.

She didn't want Elaine hurt.

 

It was late afternoon and he was lying in wait. He despised himself for what he intended, but at the
same time he was determined. His very stubborn jaw grew more so.

He saw her coming toward him, walking slowly, her head lowered. What was she thinking? Feeling?

“Victoria.”

She stopped abruptly, but didn't look directly at him. No, she was looking toward the ridiculous gaggle of ducks marching about Fletcher's Pond.

“I've been waiting for you. I was told that you come here a lot.”

That got her attention. She looked at him, her face calm, then puzzled.

“What do you mean?” she asked, not coming closer.

He walked to her. “I mean that your husband told me of your preference for the ducks and the pond.”

“I see. What do you want, Damien?”

“Why, my love, I want to finish what we began this morning. Isn't that also your wish?” He reached out his hand and lightly stroked his fingertips over her wrist. She jumped, pulling back her hand.

She felt as cold as an ember in July. So that was the way of it. Slowly she nodded, and looked up at him. “Yes,” she said, her voice low and as seductive as she could make it. “Yes, I should very much like to finish what we began.” She put her hands, palms flat, on his shoulders and gave him a smile that would melt a stone. “You no longer think badly of me for turning you down this morning? I had to, you know. Rafael could have been anywhere, quite close even. Yes, but now that I know we're alone, I want you.”

He sucked in his breath, then let the air hiss through his teeth. “Victoria,” he whispered, and leaned down to kiss her.

The instant his mouth touched hers, Victoria, despite her rage, felt intense pleasure. Didn't he know?
She wondered, furious now, more furious by the minute. Why couldn't he simply believe her? She smiled and melted against him. Her lips parted and she yielded, every part of her giving and wanting.

“Oh, yes,” she whispered into his mouth, her breath warm and gentle. “I want you so very much, Damien.”

She felt him stiffen at her words, and she pressed her belly against him. His hands were on her hips, kneading her soft flesh, then lifting her against him. She made no demur, indeed, she clasped him more tightly to her.

He wedged his hand between her thighs, touching her, caressing her through her clothing.

Suddenly, without warning, she jerked away. She kicked him hard in the shin. He yelped, jumping on his right foot.

“You bastard. You miserable, unmitigated bastard. I shall never forgive you this, Rafael. Never.”

“Victoria.” He felt bizarre, as if he'd walked onto the stage of a play he himself had penned, only to have his leading lady go off on a tangent. And find him out. But when? At what point?